


Carry on

by epithalamium



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithalamium/pseuds/epithalamium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the war, Heero comes back to confess.</p><p>Non-compliant with <i>Frozen Teardrop</i>. Written in 2007. Bit of a priest-kink going on.<br/>Song fic for 'Good Luck and Good Bye'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry on

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Carry on  
> Summary: Years after the war, Heero comes back to confess.  
> Rating: R for language  
> Word Count: 1,087  
> Contains: Talk about religion.  
> Author's Notes: I wrote this a while back, read about Frozen Teardrop and I'm re-uploading this fic to thumb my nose against that shite. Lyrics from 'Good Luck and Good Bye' are scattered everywhere and someone told me this was rather mystical? idk. That wasn't the original intention, at any rate.

Carry on

Believe in the light of tomorrow, grab on to my hand and carry on…

*

The man in faded blue jeans walked across the garbage-strewn courtyard, his face unreadable. The sun was high enough in the cloudless sky to leave no shadows on the ground, save for a small patch right under the large oak tree near the fence. The man barely gave this more than a passing glance as he went by. The church wasn’t that far from the gates, but the man felt otherwise. He couldn’t say whether that pleased him or not. He hadn’t planned that much ahead.

*

We just bumped shoulders and brushed past each other,  
Each in our own way searching for tomorrow.

*

The doors to the church were closed. The man looked around the yard slowly, eyes narrowed against the bright glare of the noonday sun. There was another building by the far side of the yard which he took for the convent, thedoor open and revealing dark hallways that made the man think of a giant's mouth, open in a lazy yawn. He made for the convent with unhurried steps, like he did not really want to go there.

*

When will we meet again?  
I search for you in my dreams.

*

He was a metre or so from the smaller building when an old woman in black habit bustled through the front door, preceded by a rake and a broom. Her eyes narrowed when she noticed the man's presence in the otherwise deserted yard. But not suspiciously so. 

"Yes, son?"

The man thought for a moment. "I was looking for the priest," he said.

"He's in the church," the nun quipped, her tone suggesting that he should have known that.

"The church is closed," the man said.

"It is opened only for services," she said. Golden dust rose from the unevenly laid out tiles as she swept the yard. "Try the back doors."

"Thank you," he said, leaving.

*

As you face the winds  
and I could see your back becoming smaller in the distance…  
Good luck and Good-bye.

*

It was dark in the church and the still air smelled faintly sweet, somewhat old. A remembrance of past grandeur, hinting at old secrets. The man went down the aisle quietly, feeling uneasy. Walking there--the sound of his footsteps thrown back at him by the vaulted ceiling--felt wrong. But then again, the whole business was.

He did not want to call out to the priest, but the church was big enough to make searching tedious. So he did, finally, his voice sounding different in that expectant emptiness. He was glad of the distorting echoes, suddenly, because his voice had not been steady when he said the other's name.

"Yes?" The priest’s voice had not changed. Not much, anyway. The man wanted to turn away and run. "Who's there?"

"It's me." Come here, the man wanted to say. But he settled for “You idiot.”

The door at the left side of the altar--which led to the small room where the priests and laity put on their vestments--opened. 

"Who…" The priest sounded irritated.

And then, "You?"

*

Only meeting and parting, again and again,  
But until you find the answers, carry on.

*

"What do you want?" the priest asked.

The man looked at the long, braided hair that trailed past the priest’s shoulders, at the silver cross that hung from his neck, and finally, the accusation in his blue eyes. "You haven't changed."

"You have," the priest said, with the same sunny smile that the man remembered. "Or you wouldn't be saying that. You wouldn't even be here."

"Perhaps," said the man. "I came to confess."

"Do you need it?"

"Everyone does."

"Not really. It's a personal decision, after all," The priest pointed at the confessional by the right wing of the church. "Some people think that a private reconciliation with Him is enough. Most, however, would rather hear another human's voice--from someone warm and breathing, like them, to reassure them of salvation."

"What do you believe?" The man waited as the priest stepped into the small space, closing the door behind him, shutting him out. Then he went to kneel on the fading green cushion placed on the cold marble floors for that purpose.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. I am here to say what people want to hear."

*

Although not hard enough to hurt,  
He bites his lip, staring off into the distance,  
His heart hidden…

*

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he said the words in Latin. It was not a language he was comfortable with, the language of men who burned the innocent for witchcraft. He stopped.

"Tell me."

"It has to do with cowardice, you see," the man said, finally. "A sin of omission, perhaps. That I’ve never had enough courage to do it."

"Do what?" The priest's tone was kind. Was he laughing? The man could not tell. There had been a time, years ago, when he could have listened to that voice and known its owner's every hidden emotion. He had not thought it mattered.

"Help him, help myself, too, come to that."

"Help? You have refused somebody in trouble?"

"In a way,"

*

I know it's up to me to fulfill my own dreams,  
So, to that smile of yours that lives again in my heart…  
Good luck and Good-bye.

*

"I wanted to make up for it," the man admitted.

"Sometimes we only know the value of what had been given us when it has been taken away," the priest said, his voice muffled by the thick and dusty screen that divided them. Sin and Sanctity. "But every loss and every blow taken is every lesson learned. I said you had changed. And you have."

"You too,"

"It's a long path." That was an off-hand remark. It was not normal to talk to a priest like that, not in the confessional.

"Perhaps I never knew you."

"Perhaps. You never thought it important before." The priest was laughing. "Knowing people is not your thing, actually."

"It's too late."

"Nothing can be too late unless we're all dead," the priest said. " _Ego te absolvo_ …"

"Do you forgive me?"

Silence…

"Yes, yes… I believe I do. That makes you happy?"

"Perhaps."

The wooden shutters slid forward with a slight thud, hiding the priest from the man's view.

*

Believe in the light of tomorrow, grab on to my hand and carry on….


End file.
